


Summer Stone

by chantefable



Category: Frontier Wolf - Rosemary Sutcliff
Genre: Ancient History, Ancient Rome, Celts, Cross-cultural, Gen, Nature
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:54:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23331217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chantefable/pseuds/chantefable
Summary: "And all the while the life of the fort went on, becoming more and more familiar to its Commander."
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11
Collections: Worldbuilding Exchange 2020





	Summer Stone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fawatson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/gifts).



Summertime slid over as the days came and went, and shimmering sunlight illuminated the daily life of the fort even as it gradually became more and more familiar to Alexios. As the warmth of the air and the opulence of verdant, fragrant plants gained strength, so did the fort's Commander, seemingly soaking up the confidence from its very walls, stroked by the summer, and from the croplands stretching around it, heavy with spring-sown barley.

At first, Alexios felt hesitant about leaving Hilarion in charge of the fort – not because he doubted the man's aptitude and experience, but because he doubted himself, and a small nagging fear ate at the flesh below his ribcage: what if the men see and feel how useless Alexios is, how inadequate? What if his absence is not noticed in the slightest? What if it is welcomed, even? For surely the fort is bound to see that Hilarion is vastly superior and more fit to command the fort than he, Alexios Flavius Aquila. And in part, the hesitance was due to another thing – less visceral and more rational, political: three boys of the Votadini had just recently come in to join the Frontier Wolves, and Alexios was anxious to make sure that no rumour spread out that they were being neglected or inadequately trained in any way, lest that might strain their relationship with the tribes. The yearly gathering at Traprain Law had occurred successfully, with all the Clan Chieftains and great men of the Tribes gathered in council before the High King, and the respect due to the laws of Rome had been ensured by the presence of a Government Inspector. And Alexios certainly did not wish that some minor foolish misstep of his put any strain on the relationship between Rome and the Votadini.

But slowly but surely, like a cub growing into his bones and teeth, Alexios learned to fit his Commander's title around him like he learned to fit himself into the procured wolfskin. Reason prevailed, and he understood that there was no better man to leave in charge of the fort than Hilarion, and no better way to arrange things than to leave occasionally. Leaving, of course, meant not merely leisure, or the joy of the hunt and conversations with Cunorix, or sometimes Connla. Leaving meant patrols, for Alexios was adamant to be part of them. One must squash one's arrogance and fears, and learn the skills for oneself – and learn about the people also. This Alexios told himself at daybreak, and with this thought he went to bed at night.

In between though, from sunrise to sunset, and sometimes vice versa, there were other thoughts to be had and other things to do. And foremost on Alexios' mind, there were the patrols, to which he committed himself on more than one occasion. The eight-day patrols of summertime, the ten-day patrols of summertime: tight, tense stretches of time when every fibre of every man's being was aflame and alert as they left the fort's walls with alacrity and swept across the land, light on their feet, and as they stumbled back, swaying with exhaustion and leaning towards the Lady Stone to touch its sun-warmed surface. 

Those patrols meant spending eight wild days out with the wild men under his command. Everything about them was lean and long, and somehow agile and sharp: their bodies gave the impression of brambles and bushes, rivers and paths, distance and roaming. Even as Alexios felt more comfortable in his role and in his own body than before, he was aware of the physical difference between himself and the frontier scouts as much as of the difference in their beliefs, superstitions and their way of life. He was determined to learn, though, for the language of the land, the habits of the people, the little quirks of the fort and the acceptance of the men were crucial to him as a Commander. To be worth his salt, he had to understand them, and to understand them, he had to comprehend exactly what they did. 

And, perhaps far more importantly, he had to earn their respect. 

So he followed suit and did what they did, trying his best and pushing his body to the brink as they crossed the mist-drenched fields and vapour-filled moors by day and by night. He listened to them talk and spoke in turn, watched them act and imbibed their knowledge through the short northern nights, and learned to love the heather and the moss underfoot. He breathed the fresh, sharp air as the mizzle stroked his skin softly, and slept through the starry hours of the night in his new wolfskin cloak – thinking of the purpose of their post, the beauty of the land, of Cunorix, Hilarion, his men…

They travelled intensely, and Alexios had seen the inland hills of the frontier country, large in size and dark in colour, for they were fully covered in a dense mass of trees with curly, dark branches. The Great Forest crowded them, overpowered them, withstood their will to cross – and yet they went and they returned, just like they were bound to. 

And just like every man camping there for the first time, Alexios had felt a shiver down his spine and a coldness all over his body, a frisson of suspense and alarm as he had looked into the black void beyond the ring of the rusty red firelight of their night camp. He had looked and he had known that something had been looking back at him, as old and vast as the Great Forest itself, not one single thing, but a multitude of things eternal: foreign, strange, vaguely hostile and supremely indifferent.

Alexios had looked, and he had known the Fear-beyond-the-Firelight. He had felt, in that moment, that he was tiny and insignificant in this space, no matter what he represented or what power Rome wielded. And yet knowing fear did not mean showing it, or succumbing to it. Things were the way they were, weren't they? And, no matter how uncertain existence had felt, in that very moment, Alexios was certain that he craved the respect of his men.

That craving for the right thing to do by them went above all.

So these long hot weeks of summer went by with Alexios learning from his men, like a worshipful apprentice learns from his master, how to read and follow a trail. The eight- and ten-day patrols were them showing their Commander tricks and artistry, and him humbly imitating: how to use both light and wind to conceal himself and the pony? How to find cover under the tiniest bush or rock? How to gain speed when travelling cross country? Alexios knew that he must learn for himself how to avoid getting skylined and how to melt into the surrounding landscape, just as much as he needed to master snaring a wild bird for a hearty supper and caring for the sturdy pony on the way. 

All of these skills were to make him accepted among the men, and, in his mind, accepting of the men. 

They were to make him not just a fort commander, but a Frontier Wolf. A Commander of the Frontier Wolves, a right man in the right place: the kind of man Rome needed in the land of the Tribes, on the edge of the world.

So every time he came back from patrol, he would lean slightly aside, to touch the Lady as he passed, and he felt the summer warmth of her, full of hope and promise.


End file.
